The Yuletide Child

Ross seemed very amused by her—did he enjoy her bubbly personality and headlong chatter? Dylan wished she was an extrovert, could talk as easily, but she found it impossible to shed her inhibitions.

Dancing was a physical art; she never needed to talk. She could express herself eloquently in gesture and movement, so she was never self-conscious on a stage, but faced with other people she felt herself tighten up, unable to relax.

‘Actually, I bought a ticket because I saw a big blown-up photo of Dylan outside the theatre,’ Ross said, and Dylan did a double-take. He had never told her that. He glanced at her, dark grey eyes teasing.

‘I knew it! You didn’t go in to see a ballet, you went to see more of Dylan. Did she look sexy in a tutu?’ Suzy roared with laughter.

‘I’m sure she would—but in the photo it looked as if she wasn’t wearing anything at all,’ Ross drawled. ‘She looked totally naked, but when she appeared on stage I realised she was actually wearing a body-stocking.’

Dylan went pink. Was that really why he had come to the ballet that first night? In the hope of seeing her dance in the nude?

‘I bet that was a disappointment!’ Suzy mocked, and he grinned at her.

‘You’ve got a wicked mind!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Look, Dylan, I have an hour to spare. I’ve finished all the work I need to do this morning, so I popped home to see how you were getting on. I thought maybe we could have an early lunch? Sandwiches and coffee? That won’t take you long, will it? Suzy, you’ll stay, won’t you?’

Politely Dylan said, ‘Yes, please stay, Suzy. It won’t take me a minute to make some sandwiches, or would you rather have pasta? I could make a quick spaghetti with tomato and basil sauce.’

‘Don’t tempt me!’ Suzy groaned. ‘Could you make me a salad sandwich with no butter in it? I’m dieting.’

‘Me, too,’ Dylan said ruefully. ‘How about you, Ross?’

‘Cheese, onion and tomato sandwich for me, darling.’

‘Okay, I won’t be long.’ She went off to the kitchen while Ross showed Suzy into the sitting room. While she cut bread, made the salad filling, sliced Ross’s favourite Cheddar cheese, she kept thinking about that lipstick on Ross’s mouth.

Had that kiss meant anything? But there had been no trace of self-consciousness or secrecy in their behaviour when she appeared. Suzy was just the type who kissed her friends, male or female.

Dylan hoped so. Jealousy was new to her; she never wanted to feel it again, the stab of agony that had pierced her when she first saw the blonde woman in Ross’s arms.

When she carried the tray of sandwiches and coffee through she found Ross and Suzy sitting close together on a couch. For a second Dylan felt the sting of jealousy again, then she saw that they were glancing through an album of wedding photos which Dylan’s sister had made and sent to them.

‘They’re quite alike, aren’t they, Dylan and her sister? ’ Suzy was saying.

‘There is a resemblance,’ Ross agreed. ‘But Dylan’s beautiful and Jenny is only attractive.’

Dylan’s heart turned over—did he really think she was beautiful? Oh, he had said it to her, when they were making love, but this was the first time she had ever heard him say it to someone else.

Her hands trembled; the china rattled on the tray and he and Suzy looked round. Hurriedly Dylan came forward to put the tray down on a low coffee table.

‘Just looking at your wedding pictures,’ Suzy told her. ‘You made a lovely bride.’ Then she leaned over the album again, staring at one photo, and gave a low, throaty gasp. ‘Who is that? He’s the sexiest thing I’ve seen for years—look at those smouldering eyes! Talk about a turn-on!’

Before she looked down at the photo Dylan knew who it was—who else could it be but Michael, lithe and supple in the dark grey suit he had worn for the wedding? The photo had been taken as the guests arrived for the service. All around him were happy, smiling faces, but the photographer had caught him in grim, bitter mood, glowering at the camera.

Ross glanced at it, scowling. ‘Oh, him! He’s a ballet dancer.’

Suzy groaned. ‘You’re kidding? He oozes machismo! But he’s gay, I suppose? They always are, aren’t they? What a waste!’

Dylan opened her mouth to contradict her, explain that male dancers were no more likely to be gay than the female ones, but Ross talked over her curtly. ‘Is that my sandwich, Dylan? I’d better eat it and go. I’m meeting my boss in half an hour. I’ll take my coffee black, thanks. What about you, Suzy?’

‘Black for me, too, thank you. Are these my sandwiches? They look terrific; I’m starving!’

‘Yes, I hope they’re okay,’ Dylan said, handing her the plate.

Suzy bent her head over them, inhaling. ‘They smell wonderful. I love the smell of fresh salad, don’t you? Did you grow all this, Ross? He’s a great gardener, isn’t he, Dylan? I envy you those rows and rows of vegetables. He plants them the way he plants his saplings—straight as a die! Vegetables taste so much better when they’ve just come out of the garden, don’t you agree?’

It was only later, when Ross had gone off back to work and Suzy had set off for her own home, that Dylan remembered that she had never set Suzy right about Michael’s sexual orientation. Next time she had a chance she must do so, but she would make certain Ross wasn’t in earshot. He hated her to mention Michael, which was typical of a man. He saw nothing wrong in laughing, teasing, almost flirting with Suzy, yet he turned nasty if Michael was mentioned. One law for him, another for her, apparently. Dylan resented that. How would he like it if she started sulking or flying into a rage every time he spoke to Suzy?

The following Friday night there was a bad spring storm in the region; all night long the wind howled around the house. Dylan anxiously watched the trees on the forest edge swaying and bending, and heard on the TV news that houses had suffered serious damage, losing tiles or chimneys, while power lines were brought down and trees toppled. Anxiety kept her awake half the night, but towards dawn the winds died down and she fell into a deep sleep, only to be awoken by the shrilling of the telephone.

Ross moaned something and rolled over to pick up the phone. Sleepily, half believing she was still dreaming, Dylan heard him groan.

‘You’re kidding? Completely blocked? Yes, we’ll have to deal with that at once. Of course. I’ll be there. Okay, Alan. See you in half an hour.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Dylan asked, struggling up in the warm bed as he hung up and started to get out of bed.

‘The storm brought down half a dozen trees in Alan’s section of the forest. A couple of them have blocked a road, and people are having to make a big detour. The police rang Alan, asking him to get the road cleared as soon as possible. He can’t do it on his own; he’ll need help. Sorry, darling. I had hoped we could go out somewhere today, but we’ll have to put that off until tomorrow. I may be busy most of the day.’

She tried to hide her disappointment ‘Oh, well, maybe we could do something special tomorrow! I’ll get up and make your breakfast.’

‘No, don’t bother, darling. I’ll just have a cup of tea and a piece of toast.’ He gathered up his clothes and went off to the bathroom, telling her, ‘You stay in bed. Try to get some more sleep.’

That was impossible, of course! she lay listening to the sound of the shower, then a few moments later his quiet footsteps on the stairs, the muted movements in the kitchen. She was still wide awake when Ross left. Dylan heard the front door close quietly, the engine of his four-wheel drive start up, then the sound of him driving away, fast.

For another half an hour she lay listening to the empty house; clocks ticked, floorboards creaked, electricity hummed, but she was all alone. Gulls pattered on the roof; they must have flown inland to escape the storm. In a line of thornbeams at the back of the garden rooks sat on their rough nest, squawking and arguing.

Further away, she heard the rustling and whispering of the forest; the wind had died down but it was still blowing among the branches.

The house was immaculate. She had nothing to do and all day to do it in, alone. Turning over, sobbing, she longed for London, for streets noisy with traffic and people, for the comfort and reassurance of being surrounded by others.

She would have liked to ring her sister, but Jenny would think she was nagging for Phil to go to London and collect her car, and Dylan didn’t want her to feel pressured. Saturday was a family day—they all did things together, went shopping, went to the library, had lunch out at some favourite country pub, took the kids cycling on safe country roads, went sailing or walking. So Phil would probably be bringing her car tomorrow.

Dylan wished, though, that he was coming today—bringing Jenny and the kids with him. That would have been something to look forward to; it would have brightened the whole weekend.

Sighing, she got out of bed and began the usual dull routine of showering, dressing in jeans and a shirt, tidying the bedroom, collecting the clothes she and Ross had worn yesterday, taking them downstairs to go into the washing machine. Within half an hour she had eaten breakfast and finished tidying the already tidy house, so she went out into the garden to deal with the ravages of the night.

The wind had wreaked havoc—torn flowers off stalks, flung twigs and leaves all over the lawns, ruined young lettuce, broken the stems of sweet peas and runner beans. The garden was a sad sight. She spent part of the morning working out there, staking and pruning and raking up leaves and wrecked plants to put on the compost heap.

When she had finished she went back indoors to wash, flushed, with aching muscles. That was the hardest physical work she had done since she’d left the ballet company and she’d enjoyed it. As always, it had changed her mood; she felt more positive, less weepy. Amazing the chemical changes in you brought about by working your body!

Just as she was going upstairs to shower and change she heard the sound of a car engine slowing, stopping, right outside the garden gate. A door slammed, the gate creaked, there were footsteps on the path. Dylan’s heart leapt—it must be Ross, home earlier than he had feared!

She jumped back down the stairs, ran to open the door, ready to fling her arms round him, but it was not Ross standing there. Her entire body jerked in shock, as if she had touched a live wire.

CHAPTER THREE

‘MICHAEL!’ She was so overjoyed to see him that she flung her arms round him impulsively. People in their world were casually affectionate, although she and Michael had never been very demonstrative. He wasn’t that sort of man. There was a deep well of reserve inside him; he guarded his mind and heart from casual eyes and even Dylan had never been entirely sure what he was hiding, only that Michael kept his secrets, even from her.

As their bodies met in close, warm contact she abruptly became aware that this was a man she was holding, not some sexless body she had known most of her adult life.

Shock jabbed into her. She hurriedly began pulling away, but Michael caught her face, framing it between his hands, palms against her flushed cheeks pressing in on the high bones, the smooth, silky skin.

Shaken to her roots, she stared up into his hard grey eyes.

‘Missing us already, you are? What did I tell you?’ His voice was deep with anger, satisfaction, triumph, or perhaps all three. ‘I knew you’d be lost away from us. You made a stupid mistake when you married this guy. You don’t belong with someone like him.’ He stared deep into her eyes and she helplessly leaned on him, like someone paralysed.

In a wail she protested, ‘I love him, Michael!’

‘You mean you wanted to go to bed with him! Was that worth ruining your life for? Why didn’t you just spend a couple of weeks having sex with him all day until you were bored with it?’

Was that really how he saw love? Did it mean nothing to him but a drive to sate a passing lust? The idea horrified her. Ross was so much more than just a body she desired; he was the only man she had ever met who really meant anything to her.

‘Love isn’t just sex, Michael!’ she protested. ‘That may be all you think about, all you need—but for a woman love means a whole lot more than that. I want to share his life, have his children, be with him all the time.’

His blond head lifted: he flicked a glance past her into the house, raising his brows. ‘Oh? So where is he now?’

‘At work,’ she reluctantly admitted.

‘On a Saturday?’ Michael’s tone was sardonic, his face full of mockery, and her flush deepened.

‘There were storms last night; some trees came down—he has to clear a blocked road. He’s responsible for a wide area of the forest here; he deals with every aspect of it, from planting to fighting fires. He doesn’t do a nine to five office job, you know. His work is far more important than that.’

Michael studied her serious face, his own ironic. ‘And how long will Mr Wonderful be working today?’

‘How can he tell? It all depends how long it takes to clear the road,’ she said absently. She had started to think now that her original shock had died away. ‘Michael, what are you doing here? Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?’

‘I brought your car up here for you.’

‘What?’ She looked past him in surprise. She hadn’t noticed the car until now, although how on earth she could have managed to miss it she had no idea! It was parked right outside, the big, multi-coloured tropical flowers glowing as if they were real in the fitful sunlight! You wouldn’t think she could fail to see them, now would you?

‘My flower wagon! Oh, thank you, Michael!’ She ran down the path and walked round the little car, stroking the bonnet, delighted to have it back again. ‘It will make life a lot easier,’ she told Michael, who had joined her. ‘It’s quite a walk to the village, and I can’t go further afield unless Ross drives me. The buses take for ever and there’s only one a day to Carlisle. So I’d be lost without a car.’

Michael’s mouth twisted wryly as he stared at the landscape: the green forest stretching on and on, the road, the grey/blue sky. No houses, no break in the endless trees.

‘How are you going to stand it here? It would drive me out of my mind in twenty-four hours. Give me city life any time. You’re a city girl, Dylan—what on earth are you going to do with yourself up here? Especially if that husband of yours is out at work all the time!’

It was a question she had been turning over ever since she’d first arrived here and realised for the first time how remote and empty the landscape was. The lack of neighbours, the loneliness, all compounded by the fact that Ross was going to leave her alone for many hours every day.

But she wasn’t going to admit all that to Michael. An instinct told her not to betray anything to him that might give him the idea that she was not radiantly happy with Ross.

Turning away, she walked back up to the front door, Michael following her without hurrying. She didn’t look in his direction but she couldn’t help noticing the way he walked—with panther-like grace, flowing movements that held both elegance and a disturbing hint of threat. He wasn’t that much taller than her, yet his lean, supple body was held as taut as a stretched wire, making him seem tall. Why had she never noticed any of that before? Or had custom hidden his masculinity from her during their long partnership?

‘Oh, I have lots to do every day,’ she flung over her shoulder, glad he couldn’t see her face as she spoke; Michael had always been able to read her expressions. ‘The house, the garden...I’ve discovered a real interest in gardening.’

‘So I see,’ he drawled. ‘You carry quite a bit of it around with you, too!’

Dylan darted into the hall and surveyed herself in the mirror hanging just inside the door. Streaks of mud ran down one cheek, decorated the tip of her small nose.

She began to laugh. ‘Don’t I look a sight! You should have told me! I must have brushed a muddy hand across my face.’ She looked down at her hands, grimacing. ‘Yes, that must be it.’

Michael closed the front door and suddenly Dylan became very aware that they were alone in the house. A frisson ran down her spine, worrying her. How many times had she been alone with him over the years since they first met—in his flat or her own, in dressing rooms, on a bare stage, in rehearsal rooms? She had never been conscious of being alone with him before. What was the matter with her?

Had he really changed? In such a short time? She tried to remember how he had looked last time they met, but there was a blankness in her memory, as if Michael was just an outline, a cut-out shape with nothing solid inside it.

Had she simply stopped looking at him years ago? Yes, maybe. And all that time he had been changing, developing... Well, for a start, how long had he been this powerful? They had met when they were scarcely out of their teens. She still remembered him as he had been then, a skinny, slightly built boy with a mass of soft fair hair and light grey eyes. That boy had gone for ever. Now, under his white shirt, she saw the ripple of chest and arm muscles; his shoulders were wider, his blue jeans were moulded to strong thighs and calves. She was looking at a tough, hard-boned, disconcertingly physical man.

Huskily, strangely nervous, she said, ‘Phil was going to collect my car.’

‘I know. Your sister wrote to me, sending a selection of wedding photos. She mentioned that Phil was going to be coming to London to pick up your car, so I rang her and offered to drive it up here.’ Michael wandered away as he spoke, exploring the ground floor of the house, looking into rooms curiously. ‘Not exactly stylish decor, is it?’

She couldn’t deny it; the house was a square, modern box, built of grey stone, with a slate-tiled roof. Neat enough, but it had been decorated by a previous tenant in a muted style which showed little imagination or invention. The colours of the rooms were safe, pale pastels, the ceilings white, the carpets dull blue or green, the curtains matching them.

Defensive against any criticism he made of her new life, she told him, ‘We’re going to redecorate when we get time.’

‘Time is something you’ll have plenty of now, Dylan!’

The sarcasm made her wince. It was painfully undeniable. If there was one thing she had plenty of it was time.

The opposite had been true most of her life—she had lived by clocks, running from bed to rehearsal, to costume fittings, to performance and so back to sleep. Never enough time, never a moment to relax. It had been a terrible strain, one she had begun to yearn to end. She had ached for another way of life—for lazy mornings in bed, a light-hearted drift through the day, long lunches, sunny afternoons on a lounger in a garden, an endless holiday.

Now suddenly she had time and very little to fill it with, and she was appalled at the prospect of life being the same for ever and ever, amen. She found she couldn’t sleep late; she had been trained to get up early and she still did so. Long lunches were out because she had nowhere to lunch and nobody to lunch with. Lounging around in the garden soon palled, which was why she had started gardening. She was lonely and hadn’t enough to do, but she couldn’t admit that to Michael.

She said huskily, ‘I expect I’ll soon make a start on the house, but I want to settle in first. It was kind of you, but you didn’t have to come all this way just to deliver my car. How will you get back? You know you hate travelling by train.’

She hoped he wasn’t expecting her to offer him a room for the night. Ross would be furious if he got back to find Michael staying with them. He would welcome any other friend of hers, but never Michael.

His grey eyes held a spark of derision, as if he had read her thoughts and mocked her.

‘Trying to get rid of me already, Dylan?’

‘No, of course not,’ she stammered, very pink.

‘Don’t worry, I’m dancing on Monday. I have to get back. I’ve already arranged to hire a car from a national firm with offices in Carlisle. I’m to deliver it back to their nearest London branch.’

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